


Fuzz

by felandaris



Series: Caboodles and Chantry Boys [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beards, Boobistair, Consensual Sex, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Shameless Smut, Shaving, Smut, Tent Sex, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6526762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen, Trevelyan, Alistair. Lips, tongues and beards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuzz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eravalefantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy/gifts).



> Eravalefantasy requested the OT3, Cullenlingus and beards. I’m throwing in a free Boobistair. ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ  
> Set during ch. 2 of [Farewell my King](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6141173/chapters/14071622) but can totally be read as a standalone.

 

_“Ah…”_

Trevelyan flinches, hisses with the delicious sting. Her apex blooms a hot red, sweetly irate.

They’d shaven her, earlier. Seated in fluffy grass in the afternoon sun, Cullen had navigated the blade with languid, tantalising precision. Alistair had held her still, watching over her shoulder. His shaky exhale had tickled her ear as he’d followed the knife’s fluid glide revealing inch by inch of pink, naked skin; tracked Cullen’s finger spreading creamy froth over plump lips- lazy lines, unhurried circles, but never dipping inside. He’d swipe a hair’s breadth past her bulb, watching it swell thicker with each maddening stroke.

Under one man’s hungry stare, under the other’s careful attention Trevelyan had grown wetter, warmer, readier. She’d almost come when Cullen had dipped the cloth into the creek to clean her. Challenging eyes had found hers, studied her reaction when slick cotton had grazed her pearl - cool, damp pressure, as enticing as it was brutally insufficient. Once she was done and dry he’d inspected her, _they_ had; fingers hovering over her bald mound, her aching folds, leaving her cruelly untouched.

And then they’d left. Planted a kiss each on her forehead and got up to prepare dinner with the greatest nonchalance, ignoring their tight breeches. She’d followed, equally flabbergasted and frustrated. Throughout the meal her men, has deemed further titillation necessary- slurping stew, sucking on spoons, throwing her one suggestive glance after another. By the time they were _licking their plates she_ was defeated, shifting on the ground, flushed and flustered.

_But now-_

Now she’s writhing on a thin bedroll in their tent’s musky heat, sweat-dampened golden curls running between her fingers and sweet lust trickling from her. One leg sits, trembling, on a broad shoulder, the other angled wide, opening her up to Cullen’s hands, mouth and beard.

 _Maker,_ his beard.

Grown beyond his chin, its ashen-blonde length drags across her skin, scratching where she’s most tender, working up an exquisite itch.

Like Alistair’s torso behind her provides a warm contrast to the chilly floor, Cullen’s coarse bristles and moist lips play together, and her body _sings_ for him. He’s got her spread out at his mercy, leaving no doubt who’s in control here. And he’s not even at her centre yet. His fingers, mouth, teeth caress, kiss and nip, up her thighs, her hipbones- but not where she wants him.

The scrape of Alistair’s ginger whiskers precedes his hushed question against her arched neck.

“Is he teasing you?” A whimper, a nod, a helpless buck of her hips.

Large palms on her bosom, squeezing, shaping. _Always Alistair at her breast, always Cullen between her legs_. A slick thumb circling a neglected nipple accompanies his hoarse question. “Why don’t you tell him?”

Her eyes open ( _When had she closed them?_ ) to find Cullen looking back at her- predatory greed blazing in shades of liquid caramel. His lips are parted, jaw clenched in his struggle for control.

“Please.” A single, shuddering syllable. It’s met with a pleased chuckle.

“Please _what_?”

“Please,” desire slurs her speech, and her heaving chest forces a pause. “I need-“ Her words fade into a whine when Alistair twists her peaks, slowly. She _feels_ his grin.

“You need…,” Cullen repeats, a mock-curious melody. “…what?” Trevelyan’s heart hammers in her ears as two, three tantalising seconds pass.

“This?” he continues at last, blowing a tingling line across her seam. Alistair’s growl adds to the shiver that has her quivering, her nub twitching before Cullen’s face. And he continues.

“Or this?” His chin now. The wiry prickle of his beard, tracing the outlines of her sex. Too light, too little.

The rigid swell barely contained by Alistair’s smalls digs into her back as he rocks against her. She mewls, clutches, _needs_.

Then Cullen stops, his eyes boring into hers now. He leans closer, his nose almost touching upon her hairless flesh. Searing, ragged breath strokes glistening skin, and her toes curl. “How about…” Alistair all but grunts, flat palms ghosting over stiff buds.

“ _…this?_ ” And Cullen dives in.

His lip finds her first- the bottom one she so enjoys nibbling on. It brushes below her pearl, lingers for a heartbeat before his tongue, _that wicked tongue,_ drags up her length, damp, hot and thick.  

She makes no sound, sense and voice evading her. Only when the supple muscle dips inside does a moan escape her- so guttural, so mighty that Alistair freezes, listening for predators.

Trevelyan never notices, for Cullen carries on. Those massive palms keep her steady as he _fucks_ her, groaning, his baritone tingling along her edges.

Her midriff curls, her hips rise, _already_. She shudders a little harder, her pitch rising with each thrust, every tug at her nipples.

 _There, almost_ ; ready to lose herself. But Alistair speaks, a faint mumble into her tousled hair. “Cullen.” He swallows. “A taste.”

Cullen nods. Finds Alistair’s gaze. Holds it. And then he retreats. Gets up on his knees, granting her a split second’s smug glance.

 _They_ kiss, sharing her; locking lips over her shoulder. Noisy, sloppy and wet just as she. Beards rustle, teeth clash, tongues play. Alistair’s voice breaks into a falsetto croak, _pure pleasure_ , upon tasting her cream. Cullen’s growl rings low and menacing- another perfect contrast, magnificent torture. Climax ebbs from her, muscles relax and flush cools, leaving her empty and abandoned. But their kiss only grows wilder, deeper; calloused fingers wind into unkempt tresses, bodies rub against each other, _alas not her_ ; breaths grow ragged and the air thick with tension. Beside her face Cullen’s hips are rocking now, the sharp curve of his arousal so near.

She’s on despair’s edge, a frustrated cry lingering when, at last, they break apart, all swollen lips and breathless gasps. Uncertainty pairs with need, but she never gets to voice either.

Because the next instant she’s flat on her back, staring up as they descend on her. Alistair, _of course_ , latches right on to a plump breast, suckling her with that ferocious hunger. Short, rough hairs scrape at her areola while his lips pull at a taut peak and he _whimpers_ in complete abandon.

And Cullen is kneeling before her, both her legs on his shoulders now, her hips suspended, buttocks in his hands. His face is buried in her quim, drawing the most obscene noises from him. This is his feast, his sinful indulgence, and he licks, slurps, _eats_ like a starving man. Soft lips trace her folds, a curious nose inhales her essence. The he _sucks_ \- on her bundle, hard and deep.

Unlike before, orgasm doesn’t build. There’s no gentle flow of warmth through her limbs, no gradual tingle. This time a sloppy tug of Cullen’s lips on her dainty shaft is all it takes for her to tremble, arch and cry out. Her breast slips from Alistair mouth, crisp air brushing across slick flesh as she’s cresting, _melting_. Alistair’s embrace is cushion, comfort and home when the heavens release her.

Minutes pass- moments of blurry details, of slowing pulse and cooling skin. When she focusses her head isn’t resting on Alistair but a makeshift pillow assembled from clothes.

Ahead of her she makes out two standing figures, away from the small lamp’s weak halo- and two pairs of smallclothes hitting the ground.

They advance, crossing the short distance with slow, confident steps, their arousal jutting up hard and proud against tight abdomens.

Cullen is on her first, holding her stare as he traps her under bulky, masculine weight.

Once more his beard scouts over her skin as his hips roll just a fraction.

“You’re not done,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com)<3  
> And if you might feel like reading my works early, see previews or prompt me, why not check out my [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/cullenstairshenanigans?ty=h) ʘ‿ʘ


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